Zen
by Frog-kun
Summary: A twoshot about tennis. Yes, you read that right. Prequel to the manga: Ryoma wins his fourth consecutive junior title in America.
1. Zen

Dedicated to Asami-chan because if she wasn't so obsessed with PoT I wouldn't have written this fanfic at all.

By the way, I watched the dubbed anime and I'm proud of it.

**1. Zen**

It was love all – Echizen serve.

As the prepubescent tennis player bent his knees and tossed the ball into the air, his opponent, a lanky sixteen-year-old, tightly gripped his racquet and kept his eyes apprehensively ahead. Five games had been played so far in the match, all of which belonged to Echizen. Unless Echizen choked, there was no way the older boy could win. It all depended upon how Echizen handled his nerves. Perhaps beneath that cold exterior, the boy was distraught; perhaps he was feeling frayed or raw. That was what the older boy hoped.

He saw Echizen's eyes flit about. He saw his feet spring from the ground. He saw him bring his racquet down.

And he saw the smile playing upon his lips. A grim smile, but a smile of enjoyment nonetheless. It was almost cruel, the way those lips curled.

15 – 0.

Echizen had served an ace.

The older boy knew he was finished. Echizen was not losing his nerve. That smile had said it all. _I am better than you_. A calm statement, lacking any inflections whatsoever. And yet, the truth, and boy did Echizen know it.

30 – 0.

This time, the older boy had managed a short return. Echizen quickly burst his bubble. With consummate, contemptuous ease, the younger boy ran to the net and smashed the return for a winner.

Now Echizen was looking bored. As he started bouncing the ball for his next serve, he discreetly changed hands on his racquet from his left hand to his right. He served with his opposite hand.

He performed his famous kick serve: as he jumped into the air, with subtlety he twisted his body and hand, and the ball sped through the air and bounced off in a tangent. The older boy hit it with the frame of his racquet and the ball did not even land on the other side of the net. It bounced once on the older boy's own side and then went still.

40 – 0.

The older boy was perfectly aware that Echizen was going easy on him. Something in his stare and cool demeanour had said that.

This boy… his first name Ryoma… was in his own league. People noticed him, encouraging him warmly or rejecting him hotly, whichever their fancy. And Ryoma ignored it all. He existed solely within the walls he had built, lived comfortably like that.

As Ryoma served for match point, the older boy took a very good look at him. Ryoma was not even sweating. The smile had gone had gone from his face. Even though he was winning, he almost looked frustrated. _I want to go higher, _those eyes said. _But right now, I'm pinned to the ground._

Ryoma served, and the older boy wondered where this kid would be in the future. Once he managed to spread his wings and fly, who knew where he could go? Ryoma evidently liked the thought of it. Something soft…

Tennis was his ultimate Zen.

"Game set to Echizen!"

Zen, huh? What a stupid pun.


	2. Mada mada da ne

This was originally just a plain old oneshot but ideas have come to me, so now it's a twoshot. The whole style in this second chapter is way different from the first as it is dialogue-centric, so it'll be weird. I'm not even sure if this is good.

Apparently, this fic is now set in America, just before Genius 1. Behold my Mary-Sue OC: he is a fifty-something-year-old man.

**2. Mada mada da ne**

In all his time of coaching junior tennis players, Adam McPherson had never seen any young player as spectacular as Ryoma Echizen. The fact that he could beat players so much older than him and was so strong when he played was to him mind-blowing. What made it more surprising was the fact that he was Japanese; the Japanese brought many great things into the world such as Sushi rolls and high-tech computers, but men's tennis was not one of them. Ryoma's slanted eyes in themselves made him stand out among the juniors. Not to mention his tennis skills.

Adam McPherson presented the Junior Divisions trophy to Ryoma, who had just beaten a sixteen-year-old for his fourth consecutive title.

"Well done, Ryoma," he said earnestly as he shook the young boy's hand. "I can see a bright future on the pro circuit for you. Keep up the good work."

Wordlessly, Ryoma took his hand away to adjust his cap over his ears. Then he walked away without even taking the trophy.

Adam McPherson started, "R-Ryoma! You've forgotten your trophy!"

"Don't want it," Echizen answered shortly. He walked off the courts and did not look back.

The coach held the trophy limply in his hands and blinked. It was all that he could do. Around him, the parent spectators and supervisors gasped and murmured among themselves. The general feeling was clear: Ryoma Echizen was a strange boy.

And he did not carry himself like a champion.

**

* * *

**

"Come on, kid, pack your bags. We're moving to Japan tomorrow."

That was the first thing Nanjiro Echizen said to his son when Ryoma came back from his tournament.

Ryoma said, "Okay."

Someone was knocking on the door.

"I'll get it," said Ryoma. He opened the door. "Oh, it's you."

He did not sound very enthusiastic.

Adam McPherson, still holding his belated trophy, glanced around the interior of the house which was almost completely empty save for the girly magazines and the old tennis tapes which were discarded at random throughout the carpet-less floor.

"Congratulations again on winning the tournament, Ryoma. Is your father home?"

The man in the hallway looked up. "Oh, so my stupid son won the tournament. Why didn't he tell me?"

"You didn't ask."

Adam McPherson winced at the sound of 'stupid son.' Oh dear, he must have thought. Not another overbearing tennis father. It explained Ryoma's attitude perfectly.

"Mr Echizen, my name is Adam McPherson. I'm the tennis coach who sponsored the tournament your son just played at. I'd like to have a talk to you. Would you spare a few minutes?"

"Eh? All right, but make it quick. We're moving tomorrow."

They walked outside onto the footpath. Adam McPherson noted that the Echizens did not have a car. Also, Nanjiro did not seem to own any shoes.

"Well, are you going to start already?"

Adam McPherson coughed politely. "This," he said, gesturing towards the trophy in his hands, "was what your son won today."

"I see."

"This makes it his fourth consecutive title. Tell me, has the boy had coaching?"

"I teach him myself."

"Oh, and you are…?"

"Nanjiro Echizen. Former pro."

"Former pro? That explains why he knows the Kick Serve."

"Look, where are you getting at?"

Adam McPherson's lips tightened and he glanced towards the trophy once more.

"I suggest you leave Ryoma under my care."

Nanjiro blinked and folded his arms. "Now why would I do that?"

"I coach at a prestigious tennis school. Your boy has talent. If we take him on, perhaps we can push him in the right direction."

"No way. I'm sending him to Seigaku."

"Seigaku?" Adam McPherson performed a quick mental scan for any prestigious tennis schools under that name. He shook his head. "Where is that?"

Nanjiro considered. "Somewhere around Tokyo, I think."

"_Tokyo_?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"B-But…!" Adam McPherson's face grew flustered. He could hardly believe his ears. "This is America! Ryoma would be a total unknown in Tokyo!"

Nanjiro Echizen was starting to seem like the exact opposite of the overbearing tennis father. The worst kind of opposite. The kind who didn't seem to even acknowledge his son's talent.

"I'll take Ryoma on for free, even; don't you realise that right now is an important time for his development?"

Nanjiro was starting to look mildly annoyed.

"Why do you even care anyway? He's my son; he's going to Seigaku – it'll be better for him than some wussy prep school."

"But why?" It didn't make sense to him. Was Nanjiro implying that top coaching would not suit Ryoma? Adam McPherson had trained juniors for years. Juniors _thrived _in this sort of environment. Even if Nanjiro was a former pro, how could he presume that his teaching was actually better than that of a fully qualified coach?

Nanjiro said: "That kid's still a hundred years away from beating me." (Adam McPherson presumed this was a transliteration of a Japanese phrase; it sounded odd to him.) "The way he's going now, he'll never reach the top."

"W-Well, Mr Echizen! You certainly have a lot of faith in your son's skills!"

Nanjiro had the audacity to smirk. "He still has a ways to go. Right now, his style is only a copy of mine. There's still something he must do if he wants to beat me."

Adam McPherson did not quite understand, but his opinion was starting to change. He thought he could see why Ryoma revelled in beating his opponents but trophies meant nothing to him.

"Are you telling me…? Ryoma only plays tennis to beat you?"

"I dunno. Probably. You ask him."

"I see." Adam McPherson sighed heavily. "That means that I cannot teach him."

Nanjiro only looked at him and raised one eyebrow.

"You see," Adam McPherson went on, "I can only teach technical skill. The pupil himself must have the desire to become a pro. If beating one person is all your son wishes to achieve, then I truly cannot make a great player out of him."

He paused and it looked as if there was something else he wanted to say. But he shook his head.

"I shall keep this trophy," he said finally. "You will not need it in Japan. I wish you and your son the best of luck."

And with that, the tennis coach went to his car and drove off.

Nanjiro was left in the middle of the footpath, picking his nose.

"Well," he said at last to no one in particular; "he gave up quicker than most of them."

He was used to talent scouts approaching him and trying to convince him to send Ryoma off on some program. But nobody ever considered what Ryoma himself wanted.

Ryoma was waiting when Nanjiro came back inside again. He was playing with the cat. "Is that man gone already?" he asked casually. He smirked and then uttered his favourite Japanese phrase.

"Mada mada da ne."

Ryoma spoke only English except with his parents. Despite this, there was that one phrase which he said even to people who didn't speak Japanese. It still worked as provocation, though. Perhaps it was because those tall American boys didn't like to be beaten at tennis by a scrawny Japanese kid and to have Ryoma taunt them in a language they didn't even understand was even more aggravating.

But it was funny. Because 'mada mada' could also be used as a humble phrase. Ryoma could have been referring to himself all this time.


End file.
